


Teach Your Parents Well

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [46]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Parenthood, Parentlock, Violet helps to solve a crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People have asked for more stories about Nirupa. So here she is, doing a bit of parenting at the playground with Sherlock. Of course, being this family, wherever they are, crime is not far behind, and Violet is taking after more than her biological parents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teach Your Parents Well

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from 'Teach Your Children Well' by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.
> 
> Also, I know Violet is pretty damned precocious for a six year old, but you have to remember who her four parents are, and the environments in which she's growing up.

It took six-year-old Violet Morstan Watson thirty two seconds to make her first new friend in the playground. Sherlock timed her. At the one minute mark, she was friends with two more children. Within five minutes she was the darling of the playground. In five minutes and forty seconds, she had the tiny troops organised and a game of Cops and Detectives was well underway. The aim seemed to be which of the two teams would be first to catch the mysterious ice-cream thief (a singularly uninterested park squirrel) although a sub-plot relating to collecting forensic evidence (thus far an ice-cream stick, a biro lid and the tarnished, broken chain from a long lost necklace) was observable.

Sherlock related these observations to Nirupa D'Souza, seated to his left on the playground bench. Other benches around the play equipment and sandpit were populated by other parents: mothers, mainly. Sherlock had deduced and dismissed them all in less than half the time it had taken Violet to deputise her new playmates into the game.

Nirupa nodded at a tiny girl trotting at Violet's heels, about five years old, her dark skin a contrast to Violet’s pale tones. They were both dark-haired, though Violet’s hair was straight where the little girl’s was in tight curls.

"She's found herself a friend-and-colleague," said Nirupa, grinning. It was an old joke, these days, after that hilarious argument over the term 'sidekick' that was, if Nirupa recalled correctly, all Mary's fault.

Sherlock peered at the child, who was paying close attention to Violet’s activities and occasionally pointing at things on the ground, which Violet would swoop up and incorporate immediately into the proceedings. They exchanged a few words, after which Violet pointed towards him and Nirupa, then began chattering to her new friend again. Sherlock could tell even from his seat on the bench that the children weren’t speaking English. Violet had obviously been picking up a few more language skills from Nirupa in their travels.

“She appears to have chosen well,” said Sherlock, “Something in common with her parents, at least.”

He didn’t turn his head, but he knew Nirupa was smiling all the same. He allowed a corresponding smile to pull at the corners of his own mouth.

“It must be said,” Nirupa conceded in the voice of disinterested academia, “That the Watson-Morstan genes have a certain hereditary genius in this area.”

It was as well the adult bearers of that gene pool weren’t in the vicinity, or the pair of towering intellects on the park bench might have been hooted at with laughter.

Violet was suddenly in front of them both, holding the small child by the hand.

The small child was staring at them with saucer eyes. "Violet says she has two daddies and two mummies?" she said with pleasingly accented English, inflected to a puzzled question.

Sherlock and Nirupa exchanged a look, then Nirupa put on her friendliest smile.

"It's an unusual socio-cultural phenomenon, but it works for us," began Nirupa, and then at the look of confusion on the child’s face, added, "We help Violet's other mum and dad to raise Violet."

"It takes a village. Blah blah," said Sherlock, waving a hand.

Violet poked him in the cheek with a chubby and surprisingly hard finger. "Daddy says you have to play nice in the park."

"Your Daddy isn't here," said Sherlock.

"I'm here," Violet protested.

"Are you playing nicely?" he asked, emphasised the correct adverbial form of the phrase.

“I am,” said Violet grandly, “I am going to introduce you to my friend now, and you’re going to be _charming_.”

Well, Violet made that announcement with such confidence that Sherlock was genuinely torn between wanting to set her straight and not wanting to disappoint her.

“Sherlock and Rupe, this is Akua Manae Agyeman. Manae, this is my other dad Sherlock and my other mum Nirupa.”

“Hello,” said the little girl shyly, looking up at them from underneath long black lashes.

“ _Ete sen_ ,” responded Nirupa with a smile, “ _Wo ho ti sen?”_

Little Manae’s eyes opened wide, and she looked at Violet, who grinned back in a very evident ‘I told you so’ manner. Then Manae looked at Nirupa and began to talk in high, fast Akan.

Violet leaned on Sherlock’s thighs as they both watched Nirupa and Manae, deep in conversation.

“I haven’t had an opportunity to be charming yet,” said Sherlock quietly into Violet’s ear.

“You can be charming in a bit,” said Violet, not taking her eyes off her friend, “When she asks you the question.”

That was intriguing. “All right.”

Violet leaned closer against him and he watched her watching her friend. Then he watched Nirupa, speaking with her quiet, easy confidence one of the many languages at her disposal. Then he cast his gaze out over the other parents. Ah. The woman approaching then must be Manae’s mother, having just spotted them, her expression caught between concern and outright alarm. Manae, he thought, must surely take after her father if this tall and willowy woman was her mother. In fact, Manae seemed to have no matching features with her at all, and… _ah_. _That_ was interesting, too

“Manae,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble, gentle and reassuring. Positively charming, in fact, “Is that woman your mother?”

Manae glanced fearfully over her shoulder, took a sharp, high breath, cast a quick glance at Violet and said, “She’s… she’s my… other mother.”

“What was the question you wanted to ask?” Sherlock said, low and urgently, one eye on the approaching woman.

The little girl seemed to struggle with the words. Nirupa, taking in the approaching woman, Sherlock’s expression, Violet’s round-eyed concern and Manae’s anxiety, said softly: “Can you say it in Akan?”

Manae’s breath came out in a rush, spilling words out, tiny, fearful sounds.

Nirupa leaned towards Sherlock beside her, and he leaned in, tilted his head so she could breathe straight into his ear: “Why does other-Mummy bring those nasty men home to look at me?”

The woman was only a few metres away. Sherlock whispered to Manae: “When did you last see your mother. Your real mother.”

Manae made a panicked whisper back, which Nirupa rapidly translated. _Not since Easter. Other-mother said Mummy had to go back to Ghana for a visit. Other-mother is looking after me._

A week ago.

Then the woman reached them and held out her hand imperiously. “Come, Ama.”

Manae stared wide-eyed at the woman and pressed anxiously against Nirupa’s legs.

“Hello,” said Sherlock, a smile pinned on his face that was bright and deadly, “You must be Manae’s kidnapper.”

The woman should have known to run then, but she didn’t. She tried to cover her fear with outrage. “Her name is _Ama_. And how _dare_ you? You’re the ones luring my daughter away in a playground. _Perverts._ I should call the police.”

“Oh please,” Sherlock’s deadly smile widened, “ _Do_. They’ll be pleased to get their hands on one of the gang.” He had one hand wrapped around Violet’s waist, because he was not letting his girl out of his sight or his touch with this venomous creature in the vicinity. He noticed Nirupa gently wrapping her own arm around Manae’s waist. Not tightly. The little girl could run if she wanted to, could take a step to this other-mother of hers, but she didn’t. She pressed herself backwards, closer still to Nirupa’s steady presence.

“You’re Sudanese,” said Sherlock, and he was aware of a silent sense of approval emanating from Nirupa – the anthropologist, the linguist, the genius in her own field of studies. He had been paying attention to her lessons in learning more about identifying the physical, cultural, linguistic and social markers of immigrant Londoners from all around the globe,

Sherlock expanded on his theme. “Manae, which is her real name, is from Ghana. I haven’t been following the case closely, but there was an article in the Daily Mail this morning. An illegal immigrant from Soho, certain her ex-boyfriend had taken her child, pursued that line of inquiry first, hoping to remain undetected by the authorities. When she realised that he had nothing to do with the girl’s disappearance, she went straight to the police. They released a photograph of the missing child this morning.”

The woman was still giving him a poisonous look, a calculating one, wondering, perhaps, if she could still bluff them. If she should go into an incensed performance, perhaps, accusing Sherlock and Nirupa of all kinds of terrible things, shame them into doubt. She had no idea that Sherlock Holmes was so far beyond embarrassment that his friends sometimes despaired of him. She had even less idea that Nirupa D’Souza, steeped in the conflicting social mores of a dozen cultures, often took several minutes to remember what was meant to be embarrassing in any given scenario.

“I imagine you came out today because Manae was restless and anxious,” Sherlock was continuing, on a roll, You thought a supervised hour in the park would do no harm; let her bleed off some of that unhappiness, perhaps brighten up a little in the outdoors, before the buyers come back this afternoon. You should have read the paper before bringing Manae out today.”

“ _I_ read it,” announced Violet in a mix of pride and accusation.

Which is why Sherlock knew, now, what was really going on. Violet had been attempting to fix herself breakfast while her just-reunited parents had a long lie-in (and were, as far as Sherlock and Nirupa knew, still enjoying those benefits; it was why they’d taken Violet out for a walk to the park, after all: better for everyone’s sanity, really, because the happy couple fondly imagined they were being quiet and frankly they were not actually very good at that).

Violet had taken her singed and over-jammed toast and spread the paper out on the living room floor to read, in imitation of her mother’s approach to dismembering a newspaper, though making the pages jammy in a manner that was all her own. Lying belly-down on the floor next to the sofa she’d claimed as her bed and the fold-out bed where Nirupa had passed the night, Violet read the stories with the pictures that most appealed to her. While Nirupa showered, Violet had called Sherlock’s attention to the photo of the wide-eyed, smiling, vanished child and asked Sherlock to show her Ghana (she pronounced it Gee-hanna until he corrected her) on the map. Sherlock had done so, paying scant attention to the article, except to register that the child was probably long dead.

Manae’s not-mother’s glare dissolved into panic. Frozen, unable to move for a moment, she was still standing on the spot as Nirupa pulled out her phone, held it up, and snapped a photograph of her shocked face.

Then the kidnapper shrieked and swiped at the phone. Nirupa jerked her hand back, her other arm tightening around the little girl as the woman then snatched at her.

Violet – small and furious and full of that profound sense of justice and courage she learned from all of her parents – pulled against Sherlock’s hold on her waist, drew back a foot and kicked that woman, with unerring aim, sharply in the ankle.  “You leave Manae alone!”

When the woman swiped at her this time, Violet kicked her again and Sherlock had to drag her back into his arms, out of harm’s way.

The kidnapper finally realised that the game was up to such a fearsome extent that the only thing she could do now was run like the clappers, so she did. Sherlock, Nirupa and Violet were all extremely gratified to see that she hobbled a little as she ran.

“Text that photo to Lestrade,” Sherlock told Nirupa, as he made his own call. He hugged Violet close as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“This must be good if you’re calling instead of texting,” came Lestrade’s voice in his ear.

“I have the missing girl, Akua Manae Agyeman,” said Sherlock, watching the girl in question burrow into Nirupa’s arms, “Nirupa is sending you a photo of the kidnapper now…”

A slight pause and then: “God, she looks like she’s been goosed with a cattle prod. What on earth did you do to her?”

“Nothing.”

“I kicked her!” Violet shouted into the mouth piece.

“Is that true?”  The DI sounded like he wanted to disbelieve this but couldn’t.

“Twice,” Sherlock confirmed, ruffling Violet’s hair.

“Do you have the woman in custody?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock responded impatiently, “I have Violet, and Nirupa has Manae now. We’re not chasing her across London with children underfoot. I’m sure even your lot can find her, if you move quickly. She can’t be far away, since she was bringing Manae here to let her run off some energy. You have the photo, you have the vicinity, if you get a policeman here in the next few minutes I’m sure Manae can even tell you where the house is. You can manage that can’t you?”

In fact, Nirupa was already talking to Manae, in Akan still, holding the child reassuringly close and asking gentle questions. Manae was still frightened, but not as panicked as you’d expect. She was clinging to Nirupa and answering the questions as best she could.

Violet wriggled to get off Sherlock’s lap and, reluctantly, he let her go. Violet immediately went to Manae and petted the little girl’s arm.

“I told you they’d know what to do.”

Manae beamed a smile at Violet. “Are your real Mum and Dad as nice as your other Mum and Dad?”

Violet blinked at her in confusion. “They’re all my real Mum and Dad,” said Violet, “It’s just Mummy and Daddy are Mummy and Daddy, and Sherlock and Nirupa are Sherlock and Nirupa. But they’re all my mums and dads.”

“You’re so lucky,” whispered Manae.

“Yep,” agreed Violet cheerfully and not a little smugly.

Sherlock and Nirupa exchanged a look, and a strange sort of smile.

“My real Mum is nice,” said Manae, her voice dropping to a whisper again, “But my real Dad isn’t. And my oth…other…” She sniffed.

“It’s all right, Manae,” Nirupa hugged her again, “It’s over. You can go home soon. Look, here comes your real mum now.”

They all four looked up to see a detective and a uniformed policeman striding towards them, a tearful woman – obviously of Ghanaian extraction – between them.

“Mummy!!”

“Manae!!”

Nirupa let go of the tiny body that pulled away and hurled herself motherward, but she was hardly three steps away before her mother was there, scooping her up and squeezing her tight, sobbing and laughing and kissing the little face over and over and over.

It was all very… wet, Sherlock thought, and he tried hard to be disapproving, but Violet was grinning happily at him and Nirupa as though they were Christmas personified. She held her arms up to him, and he lifted her into a hug while Nirupa passed on the results of her discussion with Manae to the policemen. In moments the police were on their radios. Sherlock saw police cars glide silently past the park, down a side road and disappear. The kidnapper, and hopefully the rest of the ring, would be in custody shortly.

Violet bumped her forehead against his to reclaim his attention. “Did I do it right?” she asked.

“Which part?”

“All the parts,” Violet said, “Manae was really scared so I wanted to be sure to do it right so she wouldn’t be. Like everyone looks after me when I’m scared.”

“Yes, you did everything right.”

“Even kicking that mean lady?”

“ _Especially_ kicking that mean lady,” said Sherlock warmly.

Violet giggled then kissed Sherlock’s face. Still held aloft, she held her arms out to Nirupa, who came in close so that Violet could kiss her face too.

“How did you know?” Nirupa asked.

“She looked like the girl in the paper,” said Violet, “So I asked if she was from Ghana,” (pronounced correctly now, Sherlock was proud to note) “and where her mummy was, and she said she only had this other mummy who made her smile at bad men. And I told her I had another mummy and daddy, and she didn’t believe me, and didn’t believe you were nice, because hers wasn’t.  So I said my other Mum and Dad would tell her why hers was no good, and you did, and now she’s back with her nice Mum.” Violet beamed at them again. “I told her you’d fix everything.”

 _Take note, Mycroft,_ Sherlock found himself thinking, _Any knighthood you ever try to offer me will never compare with that._

NIrupa’s dark eyes were on him, practically – yes, he _would_ call it _twinkling_ – and he found himself smiling back at her, through his own sparking eyes.

“Let’s go home and tell Mum and Dad!”

“Let’s get ice cream first,” countered Nirupa, because she and Sherlock both knew that it might not be entirely safe to return to 221b until at least lunchtime.

“Let’s tell the nice policeman what the hell just happened, first,” suggested Detective Sergeant Hany, whom Sherlock recognised from the Yard.

Fifteen minutes later, the story was told. Violet was impatient with the policeman for thinking that she was too _young_ and too _stupid_ to have done what she did, and Sherlock and Nirupa were radiating scorn at his lack of perception. Of _course_ Violet Morstan Watson was mature for her years and incredibly smart. Didn’t he _know_ who her parents were? Who her _other_ parents were? Wasn’t she a poster child for the combined influences of nature _and_ nurture. Just _look_ at her.

Detective Sergeant Hany took note of their overweening parental pride in the Adored Child and kept his grin to himself.

The Adored Child was busy talking with Manae and her mother during this brief exchange, and when they were finished, she looked up at Sherlock.

“Manae’s mum is scared they’re going to make them leave,” she said, distressed, “Uncle My wouldn’t let that happen, would he?”

Times gone by, Sherlock would have sawn off one of his own limbs with a rusty hacksaw before asking his brother for a favour. This time, all he did was take out his phone, send a text message to the uncle in question, and extend a hand to his girl.

“I’m sure he won’t,” he said, “You can even ask him yourself, if you like.” Because even if Mycroft could resist a text message – and he most certainly could – Sherlock doubted he could resist Violet’s huge eyes. Especially not if Violet got Ford in on the pleading-eyed act.

He gave Ms Agyeman his card and left her and Manae in the care of the police. Manae gave Nirupa a hug, then, to Sherlock’s surprise, wrapped herself around his leg in a brief embrace before she and Violet gave each other best-friends-for-life hugs.

As they left the park, heading for an ice cream van, Violet skipped ahead then ran back at them like she intended to bulldoze the pair of them into the dirt. Sherlock and Nirupa both neatly sidestepped, held out their hands between them, which Violet grabbed and used to swing herself, tucking her feet up high. She swung back and forth, while Sherlock and Nirupa kept her lifted high and swaying.

Violet giggled. Sherlock and Nirupa laughed with her.  Violet jumped away, sailing into the air and landing nimbly on her feet. She then did the run-jump-swing again, and her other parents lifted her even higher this time, and the three of them laughed even harder.

They even  brought tubs of ice cream back to Baker Street for lunch (four different flavours – nobody could decide on a single one, so they just got the four favourites), though they had to sit downstairs with Mrs Hudson for another hour until it was safe to back upstairs to share them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: edited slightly after some advice about children's reading levels and ages.


End file.
